


Morholt and Lenomie

by cukibola



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family Dynamics, Lenomie and Morholt have what Erec and Enide wish, Marriage of Convenience, Married Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:54:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25548541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cukibola/pseuds/cukibola
Summary: Lenomie is shown the corpse of her husband
Relationships: Morholt/Lenomie
Kudos: 2





	Morholt and Lenomie

When they uncovered the corpse she could barely believe it: there he was, her Morholt, his face bloodied, his eyes open in horror and his mouth twisted in pain. Lenomie did not know if she had screamed or if she had fainted, but what she knew was that the pain was unbearable for her. There he was, her Morholt, who had sworn he would return by night, maybe before if the newly knighted Tristan got on his senses and rejected a fight. Had she known that would have been the last time she would see him, she would have done more than just give him a quick kiss and tie a stupid piece of fabric around his arm as if they were teenagers in a jousting match. At least, she would have told him she loved him.  
Lenomie had not married Morholt out of desire, nor out of love. At least not at first. Her father, Leodegrance, had somehow convinced Sichfrith of Loch Rí to marry his son with one of his bastard daughters, and she had been the chosen one over the still too young Gwenevar. She had been sent to this foreign island with barely any preparation and way too quick, but, if they asked her, she actually preferred it: the least time she remained in Cameliard, the better. The ship had arrived without problems, and there were no bandits that assaulted her company, as if almost telling her on how things were going to change, even if she knew virtually nothing of her future husband other than his name, her in-law’s names and the basics of their language. 

It was a disappointment at first. Morholt was a lot of things, but attractive was not one of them. He had cut his dark hair rather badly, his eyes had a strange shape, his aquiline nose was rather big in relation to his face and his cheekbones surprisingly sharp for a man, and all those features somehow mismatched each other. Yet, Lenomie understood he had tried to imitate the fashion of her land, and on those weird eyes of his there was a shine when he looked at her, his voice in awe as he whispered “you’re beautiful”. The disappointment had disappeared almost immediately and she had accepted his caresses on her cheek with a smile.  
For the most part, they had understood and matched each other pretty well, but there were two issues between them: maternity and duties. Lenomie had wished to have a son, not really out of a genuine want on her behalf, but out of fear she would be rejected and returned to her father if she didn’t give an heir. Brangaine had been a beautiful and sweet daughter, but still a daughter, and no matter how much Morholt had sworn he loved her more than anything, Lenomie still feared for a shadow that was not there at all. And so she had quickly become pregnant again, hoping to at least leave a boy behind. 

She had heard how Gutrune and Isolde had scolded Morholt incredibly hard, but it could as well be the product of her feverish state. She had caught, however, that she had given birth to yet another daughter, and this one with a face as mismatched as her father. Her brain had displayed all sorts of twisted images upon her return to Cameliard, images of Morholt getting a brand new lover that gave him thousands of strong and beautiful boys, images of what would happen to her if she tried to have another child. Morholt once again swore he did love Seánna, and Brangaine, and most importantly, her. 

And certainly, he loved them. The two girls would always wait for their father’s boat to return with new presents for them, throwing themselves to his arms to tell him what sort of new thing they had discovered that week. Morholt would always act surprised upon nimieties like a very colorful fish or some weirdly twisted tree and have a good laugh with them as he told them some tale at night. All of that was simply impossible for Lenomie, as whenever she looked at them she got reminded of her failure and sickness. She would not admit it, but she was afraid she was starting to think of them as Leodegrance had thought of her and her sisters. Brangaine was blissfully unaware, as Gwenivar had been, and would try to ask her mother for her opinion on princess Fionula and her dwarf; but Seánna knew, just like Gwenevar and Lenomie herself had done years ago, and would answer the question with some out-of-tone comment. Morholt was a much better parent than her, and so Lenomie preferred for him to do such a task. 

But Morholt wasn’t sinless, and just like he couldn’t say no to his daughters, he couldn’t say no to any of his sisters. Oengus thought of gold and banquets, Lugaid of fights and quests, their queens knew that and they knew war and conquest was the perfect way to obtain them. And it was always Morholt who got dragged into their messes. Of course, he claimed his ability to become a giant and his increased strength at night would allow him to return safe and sound, but Lenomie could see the newer scars across his arms, his neck or his face. The Round Table, she thought, could be useful to put a stop on that, but it as much worse. 

Those stupid knights competed against one another not on who cared the most about his family or on who had managed better whatever income they had. No, their minds were absorbed upon the idea of quick, destructive, quests devoid of any real meaning. The Grail Quest! Obtain the power of a god, but die like a man! The Green Knight! Go bargain your own head, at least your family could always bury the body! Obtain the gratitude and the favor of some enamored lady, but would the lady give you the money to feed your children? Morholt was always brutal at war, and brutal when obtaining the spoils of said wars, but he wasn’t invincible, something he didn’t think about no matter how much she repeated it. He had boasted of the tribute over Cornwall, and what he would do to its people if Mark denied it once again. And Tristan had told his uncle. And that same Tristan had done this to her husband. 

Yet, despite this, they were happy. Morholt was as much of a good husband as he was a good father and a good warrior, and his heart always jumped a bit upon seeing his wife. If they went adventuring, he always listened to her pleas for his safety, and then thanked her for protecting him. If they just stayed at home, he would try to pave a way between the girls and their mother, and would always tell her she was not like her father, and for a second she would believe him. Official visits, receiving ambassadors, managing their lands… Somehow his presence made it all better for her, her heart jumped a bit along with his.

Gutrune had covered the corpse when Lenomie had fell on her knees, although she was crying so hard she could not see at all. She hadn’t covered his hand, and so the poor wife grabbed it. It was cold and stiff, so different from the hands that would caress her kindly in more moments of awe and passion. Lenomie heard Isolde whisper to Gutrune she had extracted a whole piece of metal, clearly part of the murderer’s sword. Both sisters swore to look for every single sword in Ireland and Britain and disembowel the owner of the broken one, and expose his corpse for everyone to see. But Lenomie had acted beforehand: that day, before Morholt had left, she had poisoned the tip of his spear. Lenomie was actually no believer, even less so in this situation, but she prayed for Tristan to have a slow, painful death for having stolen Morholt from her. 

And her wish was granted.


End file.
